[Editors’ Note: Learn about how the “Nine Poets Speak” series came to be in place here.]

Image by: Mystic Soulwork Fine Art Prints, Mystic Couple, Heather, Owner, Shipper, Designer and Carlos, Maker, Assistant, Designer
Mother, let me tell you a secret//Your flowers always died in my hands.
And I hated being the goddess of spring//Something you could never understand.
from "Persephone,” by Nadi
Blood in the wind, Mother,
as the motionless animals burn,
and our idle flesh scraping
like metal on metal,
or the sound of chains
dragging a heavy thing.
Once you gave me a ladder
with no rungs,
you gave me a door
that did not
open while the darkness paid
attention.
Where is it you asked?
Who is it?
And I could not
answer.
Your eyes the color of gun sheen
as laughter
broke from your mouth
while the wind bent the grass
flat then raised it up
again.
Mother who plaited my hair,
remember the god who pulled me
through the opening
which is called waiting
when you were inconsolable saying--
I am alone now
like the water swallow
the heron full of hunger
the doe dragging
its broken leg, urgent
without hurrying…
Look hard, mother,
consider my affliction.
Haven’t I always been your plot,
your denouement,
your indispensable ruse
allotted between here
and there
between unsaying and
forgetting?
Meet Mago Contributor, Leonore Wilson – Return to Mago E-Magazine (RTME)
oh I thought you wrote this smart – leore another jewel!
Oh My god Mary -this one is so nuanced – says too much that will be missed by many – YOUR GIFT IS AMUTI FACETED JEWEL…BLESSED BE THE TRUTH TELLERS.